Between Love and Death
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is fascinated by death. It seems the feeling is mutual. Pre-Slash. Rated T


**A/N: I do not own although I often forget to mention that!**

Between Love and Death

_Nothing except possibly love and death are of importance, & even the importance of death is somewhat ephemeral, as no one has yet faxed back a reliable report. _

_Gerald Durrell_

It was lured by the elegance and splendor of the man. He called to it.

Not as in wanting to meet with it or embrace it as if he had a death wish. But in the way he hovered around death. Uncovered its riddles. Delved into its secrets.

Not in a grim or morbid manner, nor as a murderer, a conductor of death, but as one who solved its mysteries. One who could stand in a room full of few facts and deduce the why and the how and the means.

Death was fascinated. It saw unlimited possibilities in the tall, thin man's eloquent words, the tapestry of sound he wove around himself, laying it all out as a shroud to unfold before the common folk, the huddled masses, lights that did not shine as brightly. He made death a thing of beauty. Death was flattered, perhaps even enamored, certainly intrigued.

It was intrigued enough that it decided it would pay the detective a personal visit, to listen to him speak. Not the kind of personal visit that would cause him to cease to exist; that would be a tragedy, the destruction of a great masterpiece. And it wasn't his time yet. One did not usually rush into the arms of Death. Not unless one was actively suicidal and even then it just messed up schedules and arrangements and involved lots of paperwork and headaches.

Death had to plan carefully how to go about this. It decided the easiest way was to impersonate the detective's friend. It was closely acquainted with this other man, having first met him in the desert half a world away. To a lesser degree it also admired his handiwork, in a different way, the coldly efficient way that the ex-soldier would dispatch an enemy or a threat. There were secret deaths in his past, which the detective had no knowledge. It would pretend to be John Watson just for a day or so. Just to get close, to learn. It could manage that short of a break without things getting terribly backlogged.

It got its opportunity a few days later. It wasn't the Doctor's time yet either, but it was a close thing. And Death was nearby in case something went wrong. Concerning these two it paid to be nearby.

oOo

"John! Watch out!'

John ran around the corner of the building, ahead of Sherlock for a change. Not heeding anything but the chase. As he came around he heard Sherlock's warning first and felt the pain blossoming through his skull second. He slumped to the ground.

He felt cold and dark spots began to slink up on his vision. _Not yet, please. I need to say goodbye._

He was vaguely aware of a presence nearby. At first he thought it was Sherlock. He couldn't see properly. Everything was opaque. All he could comprehended was the figure was tall, thin and dark. A cold but gentle brush of lips against his own, a thrill coursed through him for it felt like a lover's kiss, a soft hand full of care against his cheek. An old friend's familiar voice, but not Sherlock's, spoke to him.

"It's alright. You are going to be fine. But I need you to sleep. Just for a bit. When you wake up, you won't remember a thing."

John felt the edges of consciousness fold over him and he drifted in a dreamless sea.

Meanwhile, Sherlock ran up to where John lay slumped against the cold brick wall the suspect slipping away unnoticed. All Sherlock could think about was the small still form lying on the ground.

His brain was panicking with nothing but the sound of John's name beating through it.

He reached John's side and noticed his chest was rising and his eyes were blinking. Relief washed through Sherlock like a great wave and dragged him back from the edges of the abyss that had opened up at his feet at the thought of John being…well not John. He crouched down and took the familiar wrist in his hand and checked the pulse. Rapid. He lay a hand upon the chest to check, to make sure, the need for security in the knowledge that he was still breathing. John's eyes continued to flutter. A large bruise was rapidly emerging on his forehead. He touched it, carefully.

The sound of pounding footsteps came up behind him.

"What happened?" queried Lestrade.

"John rounded the corner straight into a lead pipe." Sherlock jerked his head. "It's over there."

Lestrade whipped out his phone and called for an ambulance. John had succeeded in opening his eyes completely at this point. He was muttering something.

Sherlock leaned closer. He gentled his voice, "What was that John?"

"My head hurts. That was unexpected."

Sherlock huffed. "You were just bashed in the head with a lead pipe. What else would you be expecting? Of course it bloody well hurts."

Angry relief was evident in his tone. John's face broke into a wide grin of joy.

"It's you!" he said. "It worked!"

Sherlock's look shifted back to concern once more.

"John, I think we should get you to a hospital. You aren't making any sense."

John looked confused for a moment, took a deep breath. "Oh, a hospital. Alright, I guess. If you think that's best."

Now Lestrade looked worried, "Get him there quick, mate. He's definitely not feeling well if he wants to go."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and helped John sit up slowly. It wasn't long until the ambulance came and without any fuss or argument John went willingly with them. Lestrade continued to look anxious, Sherlock merely thoughtful.

oOo

Several hours later saw John released. The doctor at the A & E was fairly insistent that John stay for observation, but by this time John seemed to be coherent and stable and was even more insistent he leave. He convinced the doctor he felt fine and as there were no issues or problems evident on the scans, he let John leave. Sherlock had actually waited patiently for John.

They stood outside of the hospital. The rain drizzled down as they hailed a cab. Sherlock kept glancing at John.

John, who was holding out his hand to catch drops of rail on it, felt the weight of Sherlock's stare and looked up at his taller friend, "What?"

Sherlock shrugged, "You seem…different. Other."

John looked at him, "What's that supposed to mean? Other?" there was a slight edge to John's voice. "You'd feel other too, if you'd been wacked in the head by a great piece of pipe."

A cab pulled up shortly and Sherlock bustled them into it. He continued to stare at John. He knew there was something he couldn't quite grasp. He watched for a few moments longer and it clicked. "I know it is usual for someone to have a near death experience to take pleasure in being alive but you seem to be over doing it." And that was what had been bothering Sherlock. John was looking around at everything from the streetlight to the metre on the cab and even taking delight in brushing his hands up and down the leather patches on his jacket sleeves and saying things like 'Marvelous' and 'Extraordinary' but under his breath. It was disconcerting because those were the things John would say about his work, his revelations and now he was applying it to the rain splattering against the windows.

John pursed his lips and glanced out the window again. He looked back at Sherlock, his face red as he blushed, as if he had caused a far greater sin than simply admiring the view. "Sorry. It's just…well…everything seems new again, bright and shiny. Hard to explain really."

He offered an apologetic smile in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock looked at John appraisingly. He didn't speak but his eyes narrowed. He turned and ignored John for the rest of the ride home.

They pulled up in front of 221B Sherlock dashed out of the cab leaving John behind to pay as usual. He stopped when he heard a disgruntled 'Oi!' from the cabbie. Sherlock swung around and saw that John was trailing after him, the cab ignored.

"John, the cab!"

"Oh right…Sorry," he said and pulled out his wallet and threw some money at the driver. He turned and smiled a smile at Sherlock. Sherlock huffed again and led the way into the flat.

The two men hung up their coats and Sherlock forced John to sit on the couch. "Right. I'm making tea tonight. The way you're acting, who knows what you'd do to it."

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and filled the kettle. While it heated, he pulled down mugs and tea. He grabbed the milk out of the fridge. He appeared to be completely absorbed in the ritual of brewing a cuppa, but he was surreptitiously observing John in the living room, for he continued to act strangely.

John was drifting around the room rather than sitting on the couch. He was touching things, the books, the furniture. Sherlock watched as he stopped reverently in front of the skull and stroked it. He was almost sure he heard John whisper something to it but not what he said. A frown creased his brow. Perhaps John should have stayed at the hospital overnight after all.

The younger man eyed the sugar bowl thoughtfully as he finished pulling together the tea. By the time it was ready and he carried it out, John was sitting in his chair a pleased and familiar beaming smile on his face. "Ta," he said as Sherlock handed him a mug.

Sherlock sat opposite and sipped slowly on his own tea, all the while pretending he wasn't surveying John, deducing him. John, meanwhile, took a tentative taste and, if it was possible, his face broke into a wider smile, one of pure enjoyment.

Sherlock set down his mug and leaned with his arms on his knees. "Who are you and what have you done with John."

No preamble, no hesitation. He knew the man sitting across from him was not John Watson. He felt a vague thrill as he realized this was someone who looked like John, acted like John and may even have John's body but was not John. He/it was possibly not even human, as preposterous as that may seem.

The not-John blinked at him, with John's warm blue eyes, "Umm, Sherlock, I'm the one with the head injury. Not you." And he/it laughed, but it wasn't quite right. It wasn't that it was wrong. It just wasn't quite right.

Sherlock merely stared at the not-John. He/it got very uncomfortable under Sherlock's intense scrutiny. Something was muttered and a frown appeared.

"I am not letting you get away with this. You will return my John to me and go, wherever it is you are supposed to go."

The not-John looked at him, sighed heavily and put down the mug with noticeable reluctance.

"What was it, what gave me away? I have his memories and I know what to do and say, so how did you know?"

Sherlock blinked, rather surprised that it, whatever it was, gave in so easily.

"You are entranced with everything, as if it were new, or as if it was the first time you'd seen it or felt it or as in the tea, tasted it. You survived a blow to the head which should have left you in the hospital for far longer or perhaps," and he paused forcing the distasteful words out, "perhaps even dead. Yet here you sit, appearing to have no adverse after effects, enjoying that cup as if it were the best thing you have ever consumed. And you did not even notice that I added sugar. John does not take sugar. You may have his memories but you are enjoying sugary tea with far greater appeal than John ever would."

The not-John sighed again and looked rather sad. Sherlock merely crossed his arms and continued to stare. He wasn't fooled by criminals and murderers playing upon emotions he claimed he didn't have. He wasn't going to be fooled by something inhabiting the body of his only friend.

"You are right. I am not John. I merely chose to inhabit his body for a time."

Sherlock lifted a brow. "Why?" he said simply.

Not-John fiddled with a seam in the fabric of the chair. "I wanted," he/it cleared his throat. "I wanted to be near you. You…intrigue me." He/it shrugged.

Sherlock was surprised. He sat back thoughtfully.

Not-John continued, "You see I have been watching you, watching you work. It's like, like poetry or music and I wanted to get closer, I guess. I wanted to see what it was about you that you can take my work apart so effortlessly and make it beautiful."

"Your work?"

"Yes," the not-John blushed. "I am someone who is intimate with the very nature of what you study." There was something about the way he/it said the word 'intimate'. Softly whispered, like a breath upon his ear, like a kiss on his neck, that caused a shudder to travel down Sherlock's back and a warm sensation in his stomach.

"What I study? Murderers, crime?"

"No," and the not-John locked eyes with Sherlock and the word intimate still hung in the air between them as if it were a force of it's own. "No. Death."

Sherlock sat back abruptly. "You are…Death. Of course." He nodded in acceptance and folded his hands below his chin, elbows at rest upon the arms of the chair.

Not-John or Death as Sherlock was now calling him/it in his head, smiled gently and bowed his head graciously. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." He/it held out a hand and Sherlock, paused, and leaned forward and grasped it in his own.

"So you are an admirer. I must say, this is a first." Sherlock smirked, but without his usual sting. He was, in spite of the absurdity of whatever this was, captivated.

Death pursed John's lips exactly like John and the familiar navy eyes filled with a far away gaze exactly like John's when he was thinking what amounted to deep thoughts. He/it turned his head back to look at Sherlock. There was wistfulness to the gaze, but there was something else there, something Sherlock couldn't identify right away. Something that was strangely familiar and not totally out of place on John's face but an expression that hadn't been focused at Sherlock before, at least not in such a direct way. Sherlock, being observant about hidden notions and ideas, was well aware of John's submerged feelings for him. But this look had never been fully directed at the detective before and it was heady and mind blowing.

He comprehended the emotion for what it was, once he related it back to John.

It was love.

Not lust or amorousness, although there was a certain level of yearning in the gaze.

It was love pure and simple at its very foundation.

Death loved Sherlock.

Sherlock sat back abruptly. He was, uncomfortable to say the least. It was one thing to have John's unrequited feelings hovering in the background, waiting to perhaps blossom into an entity to be cherished. It was quite another to have the personification of Death wanting you, desiring you, but not in a sexual way.

Death looked at Sherlock, waiting.

Sherlock leaned forward once more. "Are we at an impasse or are you planning on releasing John?"

Death smiled a quiet John smile, reached for the mug and leaned back savouring the flavour. He /it blinked and looked at Sherlock. A look of profound regret passed his/its face.

"No, no impasse. I will, reluctantly, give you back your John. I was willing to stay if you hadn't noticed me, but the game is up, as it were." A melancholy but sweet smile crossed John's face. Something clutched at Sherlock's chest, but he wasn't sure what it was.

He then thought of something. "There will be no unpleasant side effects to your possession of John, will there?" Death heard the faint plea in Sherlock's voice, one the younger man wasn't aware of himself. John's head was shook back and forth and a look of understanding passed over his face.

"No. In fact he will be better than if I hadn't intervened. He would have had a much longer hospital stay if he had just been John. No lasting damage but out of commission for a while. He will wake up tomorrow as if nothing had happened. He will remember getting hit, but assume you brought him back here to recuperate." He/it sighed deeply. "I guess I must be going, then."

But there was something else there. Something unspoken.

"You want something else. You wish to ask me something."

It was a statement not a question.

John's face blushed. "It's nothing, not really."

Sherlock merely stared, waiting.

John's body shrugged, the eyes flicked up from the carpet to Sherlock's face and down again, the eyelids half closed over John's eyes.

He/it took a deep breath as if before a plunge.

"Would you, would you kiss me? Before I go?" The sense of yearning, longing was back.

Sherlock blinked. He noted his own breathing had sped up.

"I really don't wish to do anything or have you do anything to John's body without his consent. It would be…not good."

John's eyes crinkled. "No worries there, Sherlock. I've seen inside his head. He wishes for this as well. He would never ask you. He values your friendship too much. But there is desire and want in here. You two would be good for each other." The look of regret intensified.

Sherlock felt a shudder run through his body.

He nodded, faintly.

And then, before he could change his mind, before regrets and uncertainties could take root, he stood up and crossed to where Death sat wearing John's body.

He stood staring into eyes as blue as the ocean. He reached out a tentative hand and stroked a familiar and beloved face. His long fingers circled around to the back of John's head, caressing the fine hairs along his neck. John's body shuddered and a faint rosy hue crept up John's face. His breathing matched Sherlock's. The taller man leaned down and gently touched John's slightly dry lips with his own. Electric sparks snapped between the two. John's hands came up and touched the back of Sherlock's head, fingers tangled in his hair. The kiss deepened and John's tongue flicked briefly in Sherlock's mouth, a whisper, a question, sweet and loving. A soft groan emanated from the detective.

Silently, tenderly they broke apart. John's warm smile inhabited his face once more and there was a definite twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"You really should try that sometime with your John. I think you'd be presently surprised."

Sherlock merely stared, blinked rapidly and felt his mind fall blessedly still for a moment.

Then John's body shudder, his eyes rolled up and he slumped back in his chair. Face slack, limbs relaxed.

Sherlock carefully hoisted John up, arm around his waist, John's arm across his shoulders and led him into the detective's room. It was easier than navigating the stairs with an unconscious form.

He lay John upon his bed, removed his shoes and pulled the duvet over top.

He cautiously brushed a hand through John's hair and as he left, turned off the light.

He sprawled on the couch for the rest of the night deep in thought.

He lay there, waiting for dawn.

Waiting for John.


End file.
